Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Enemy
by SilverCascade
Summary: The enemy of my enemy is not my friend. Mello and Near's perception of one another in thirteen fragments.
1. Left

**The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.**  
**It was a small part of the pantomime.**

**~Wallace Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"**

* * *

**i.**

He's smaller than Mello, he always has been. Puny, scrawny rat. It is the first thought about him, because he looks like vermin. Mello never finds out, but his second thought is also correct: when Near finally dies at the tender age of thirty-seven, his hair is still that stringy, diseased white.

**ii.**

Mello understands him, because he is so much like the great detective. The similarity is sickening, rancid: he's not sure if he wants to be like him anymore. Not if it means being so hollow. Not if it means being a shell.

Near sits at the library with a leg tucked under his chin, the other stretched and held down by gravity. His head is in three books whilst a screen projects a halo around his fragile skull. Resisting the urge to puke wires and cogs, Mello turns away. He's no angel. None of them are.

**iii.**

Roger thinks he is Watari, and it is disgusting. He doesn't own the place - it's not called Ruvie's House, is it? Mello resists the urge to spout sarcasm as the man preaches his white sciences and black truths. The hall is packed with pointy elbows and ragged knees. They smell of soiled grass and dry blood. Their backs hurt. They listen.

"It's a hard life, and only one of you can become L - become the next L." No shit, Sherlock.

All the children know it's going to be him or Near. He knows by their hard, hating stares: he grins. It is good to be on top, even if he shares the title with a boy made of glass.

**iv.**

The letter on the screen is mocking. He looks at the ground instead. The voice isn't synthesized like it is for government phonies - Holden Caulfield states everyone is a phony, but L doesn't think so. L trusts them with his voice. That's enough.

He glances up at "monsters." What is a grown man doing, talking about monsters in a room full of children younger than even Near? They'll have nightmares. It's ridiculous and interesting: L doesn't talk about himself much, and when he does, it's about his handwriting or his favorite snacks. Useless in terms of emulation. He doesn't see Near pausing, fingers poised over the toy blocks as his ears strain to hear.

The chocolate does not make it to Mello's mouth until after the session. A year later, when meeting the man in person and being told another, more putrid story, he realizes L crafts their nightmares with care.

**v.**

It is difficult to settle when you sleep in doorways and work shifting boxes. It is difficult to chase ambition when your stomach growls and your hands are chapped and red. Crosses and crucifixes remind him of home, so he buys more and more.

Ease comes from the wrong side of the law, and comfort means trading sweatshirts for leather and gym shoes for black boots. His friends are acid. They're stupid. They need him, even if it is for activities L doesn't condone. He can kill a man with a look, he can order torture with a wave of his fingers. It feels good to be on top again.

**vi.**

Hatred is stacked inside his chest in thick delicious perfumed slabs. If you pull open his ribcage, spreading bones like bloodied wings, there are only black bricks that stink of rot. His heart was taken out long ago.


	2. Right

**vii.**

The enemy - he is seen as the enemy by his rival. Though Mello will never acknowledge it, they had been friends: demolishing towers he built, studying in stony silences, throwing footballs in his general direction before a barking question of whether he or not he wanted to join in, that was friendship with Mello. It grew, sparking and fraying as the years progressed, snapping truly in the weeks before L lost.

They could have been good friends. It is one of the few things weighing down his head.

**viii.**

Not liking him makes Near different: he knows this, so he keeps quiet. How can they like him, respect him, want so much to be him, this shadow of a man? Too afraid to show his face lest the world tumble down. Unable to understand the cosmos are not written for him, and the games laid out will be played by someone else should he choose not to participate. No, that isn't fair - he understands. He understands very well. But he is afraid of everything, and it's pathetic.

Those who fear cannot win. Those who feel nothing, they cannot win either.

**xi.**

Though Mello vanishes, Near knows he's fine. He's always been fine, always been self-reliant, another thing that stirs the acid in his stomach. Is it envy? Who knows. Who knows.

Constructing endless skeletons from coloured bones only teaches you so much.

**x.**

Being crafted from clockwork becomes exhausting. Sleep is little and useless. A constant drum bangs behind his eyes, jolting him from dreams and nightmares alike.

For the most part, the other children leave him alone. This stays constant; in a little while, he will simply tug at Rester's sleeve and the suited men and women will depart and leave him alone. Alone with his counterparts, alone with the machines. They are hard and useful, just like him. He narrows his eyes.

He has a reputation to keep, and he will do his duty.

**xi.**

It is only when good people are killed that Near begins shaking. What gives the lowlife the idea, the damn _nerve_ to slaughter those working towards the same goal as him? For his insufferable pride he kills so many innocents - He calms himself instantly, though tightness settles in his sweaty, pallid skin. Ratt's brains and blood drip from his shirt. He doesn't want to breathe.

**xii.**

Agent Lidner carries another letter to him: Near's words, her hand. Mello is not stupid. Near knows he knows Near knows he knows… it is all a little too tangled. A mix of pride and_ jus in bello_ doesn't allow him to contact Near directly, and the boy understands.

Except for a single visit, he hasn't seen his old friend. A photo with an unread note is traded for some information. The gun's glittering barrel looks almost inviting. It would put Mello out of his misery, but Near refrains from pushing him. It will do no good. He is capable of deciding his own fate.


	3. Centre

**xiii.**

If they are titans of the world, then L is their _protogenos_. They open their eyes, but it takes death and then some. Maybe if Kira hadn't reigned, the gods wouldn't have seen the man behind the curtain. They know L now. He's the worst of the monsters.

When he fades, his coal-stained hands are wiping his rosary. Mello has nothing left inside his chest. His pulse jerks and stops; it's quick. It hurts to die like a petty criminal when he has always been so much more.

Near slides his hand under his shirt when he hears, wondering if this seizing and breathlessness is how a heart attack feels. It'll make a good reference for the future. He tugs on Rester's sleeve, and realises he has only his false name and his false face and his false heart left. He can't cry; he is still working. Sacrifice and friendship are two things he never claims to understand. A small funeral with flowers and white caskets for the both of them. That would do, even if he can't attend.

The unmasking of the wizard is almost as cold as learning of L's death. Kira is so similar to them when he falls: blood and lead and words lacking sense. They are intertwined, one coiled wire unravelling to a hundred silvery ends, sparking aqua with electricity.

Near isn't alone when he wins; the boy who sees him as his enemy is there too. Together, they destroy the ones who destroyed them.


End file.
